


Kick Up Your Feet

by KrisRix



Series: Kinktober 2020 [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confused boner, Established Relationship, Fanart, Forniphilia, Human Furniture, Kinktober, Light Dom/sub, M/M, NSFW Art, POV Third Person, Power Play, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: Fic and art for Kinktober prompt "human furniture"A deep stretch to alleviate some back pain leads to teasing that they both like more than expected...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Kinktober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956733
Comments: 5
Kudos: 105





	Kick Up Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally chapter 2 in a work called "Kinktober 2020", but I have since decided to post each fic as their own work. Sorry for any confusion!

Well … this definitely _started_ as a joke.

Simon had been lying face-up on the floor near the sofa, complaining about back pain. (From sleeping poorly last night, which was the lamest cause for back pain Simon could think of.) Baz had been ignoring him for the most part, determinedly clacking at the laptop perched on his knees. Revising, again.

 _Swot_ , Simon had thought bitterly as he frowned at the ceiling. Baz’s laser-focus on his coursework this term was really putting a strain on their relationship. How long had it been since they were intimate? One month? Two? They were even lacking in perfunctory bedtime spooning because Baz rarely slept any more. It was like being roommates all over again. Only with slightly less hostility.

With a grunt, Simon had rolled onto his knees, folding over himself for a deep stretch. Chest pressed to his thighs and forehead against the cool wood floor, Simon had finally found the perfect position to alleviate his discomfort. It had been so relaxing, he held the pose for a long while …

Baz hadn’t thought much of it when Simon fell quiet. After a decade of it, Baz was an expert at ignoring Simon when it came to academics, regardless of the method of Simon’s provocation. The only thing Baz was concerned with was his thesis, and the only thing that could distract him from it was the headache behind his eyes.

He’d been trying to ignore it for hours. Ignoring it wouldn’t help, but water and paracetamol might do. Relenting, Baz had mindlessly set down his laptop and wandered off. Mere moments later, Baz had returned to the sight of Simon glaring up at him from the floor with indignation burning in his cheeks.

“What did you do?” Baz blurted, eyeing the precarious tilt of his laptop across Simon’s back.

“What did _I_ do?” Simon sputtered. “You put your bloody laptop on me!”

“Oh … really?”

“You think I put it there myself?!”

“I suppose not.” Baz stepped around Simon carefully, squinting at the sight as he reclaimed his seat on the sofa. “You know, it’s not a bad look on you, Snow.”

“Fuck you.” The gripe was softened by a nervous hitch in Simon’s voice that belied his humiliation more than he’d like. Baz zeroed in on it like a shark sensing blood in the water. ( _Or like a vampire_ , Simon thought.)

“Now, now,” Baz tutted, “it’s not my fault you make such a sturdy table.” He lightly tapped the tip of his fancy shoe against Simon’s ribs, causing Simon’s entire body to tense and the laptop to rattle.

“Take it off, or I’m gonna let it fall to the ground,” Simon threatened.

Baz didn’t bother hiding his grin because Simon couldn’t see it in his current pose: all tucked and stretched at Baz’s feet, shoulders bunched, head hung low with shame, the back of his neck scarlet. Simon was quite the sight like this, indeed. While Baz knew he really ought to not use his boyfriend like a coffee table (not least of all because he feared for the integrity of his laptop), Baz also was loath to let this strange moment end before he could finish getting his kicks from it. It’d been quite some time since Baz took the piss out of Simon so deliberately.

“That’s fine,” Baz agreed, plucking the laptop off Simon’s tense body and setting it aside. “You’d make a far better footstool, anyway.” And with that, Baz stretched out one long leg and plopped a brogue-clad foot on the small of Simon’s back—Simon grunted in surprise—and then Baz plopped the other—Simon sank further onto his folded legs—and then Baz leant back against the couch cushions with a satisfied sigh.

“You piece of shit wanker,” Simon snarled.

“Funny, footstools don’t usually _speak._ ”

Simon _growled_. It wasn’t unusual for his animalistic vocalisations to get Baz excited, but this was a rather unique circumstance, wasn’t it?

“Relax,” Baz cooed teasingly. The hairs on Simon’s neck and arms stood up. “It’s a good stretch, isn’t it, love?”

Simon swallowed down a few more choice words for Baz, though he wasn’t sure why he was playing along with any of this. Perhaps because it _was_ a good stretch. Simon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to release the tension in his muscles. He would kick Baz off the second he was done stretching. That’s all this was.

And so, yes, this certainly _started_ as a mere joke. But now … well, now neither one of them are quite sure what to do.

Baz knows he should open his laptop and get back to work. It’s impossible. How could he ignore a provocation such as _this_? It’s made an old, dark part of Baz spark back to life—a part well-treaded during his many wanking sessions as a disturbed teen. Those fantasies are no longer needed now that Baz has the real deal nearly any time he wants it.

Despite their rocky start, they’ve fallen into a very satisfying sex life, so there’s yet to be a reason to introduce new dynamics. The occasional rough go, some dirty talk, a spank here and there, wrists pinned to the sheets—that’s as far as they’ve strayed from the vanilla standard.

Baz realizes now, with his ankles crossed over a very silent Simon’s back, that he’s been stifling certain desires.

He’s good at ignoring Simon when needs must, and he’s good at pushing aside his yearnings to the point where he convinces himself they’re not there. It’s something they both have in common, as they’ve discovered over the past few years together. Don’t rock the boat, don’t fix what’s not broken, etc. Simon’s been working on it in therapy—and trying to convince Baz to do the same, to no avail.

Perhaps Simon has a point.

Perhaps Simon wants this, as well.

Judging by his stillness and slow, shallow breathing, Baz is almost sure of it.

Which is convenient. Because Baz is pathetically hard.

Ignoring it won’t help, but …

Relenting, Baz rubs a hand over the placket of his jeans. Simon Snow, Chosen One—the foretold, the fallen, the redeemed—relegated to lowly furniture. For a Pitch, no less. It’s absolutely decadent, made all the better because Baz doesn’t know if Simon is aware of how this has affected him. If he pulled himself through his flies and got off on this, how long would it take for Simon to figure it out? Even if Baz kept quiet, controlled his breathing, there would still be the rasp of his hand along his length and the sounds of shifting fabric with each stroke. It would be so loud in this room where the only other sound is Simon’s laboured breathing. Panting, really.

It’s just from the exertion, Simon tells himself. That’s the only reason his skin is aflame and his trackies are tight—the strain gets his blood pumping. He should stop. His muscles are beginning to burn from holding himself like this for so long. There’s always been something nice about that sensation, though. And now that this much time has passed, Simon wants to see how much further he can push this. Otherwise, it feels like quitting. He’s not about to let Baz get the upper-hand here. He may be acting as a footstool, but it’s within his power to unceremoniously dump Baz’s legs off of him any time.

Or he could … not.

Sweat trickles down Simon’s forehead.

He could let Baz call the shots. They’ve had a successful track record with that in small ways in the past. And this is the closest thing to attention Baz has given Simon in so, _so_ long.

Simon’s struggle against his physical limits fades as he melts into the mental haze rolling in.

It doesn’t matter if they’re roommates or boyfriends or enemies or lovers. So long as Simon is whatever Baz needs him to be, deep down. That’s Simon’s deepest desire, as well. That’s what he was chosen for.

He’ll stay like this until Baz is finished. He can do that. Be that. He’ll prove it.

It’s a very, _very_ good stretch …


End file.
